Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

❁too much❁

Trigger Warning: This mentions suicidal thoughts, anxiety, depression, and hopelessness. If these topics could be triggering to you in any way, please do not read.

Crisis text line: 741741

Suicide Hotline: 800-273-8255

Your POV

I pull at my hair, running my hands through it over and over. Tears of frustration and pure agony stream down my cheeks.

Why am I always in this constant state of anxiety and sadness? The universe feels like it's against me. The universe feels like it's against me.

I have nothing left to be alive for.

I have been spending so much of my life existing rather than living. I have been spending so much of my life in this constant state of emotional turmoil.

I have nothing to look forward to. My plans for the future have crumbled at my feet.

I thought I was done with this thinking pattern. I thought I left this state of mind a few months ago.

I haven't. Every fucking moment of my life is stress and pain. I don't remember life without this tense feeling in my chest.

These are my thoughts as I pace the four walls of my bedroom.

I don't know what to do with myself.

What the fuck does a person in my state do with themselves?

I'm out of options.

I can't reach out to anyone. I've already used my friends as therapists enough. I posted something on Reddit - fucking Reddit - and vented, but no one answered. It was a literal reminder of how pathetic my existence is.

I haven't talked to Timothée in almost a week. I don't want to rope him into this.

My own thoughts are driving me insane. They're scaring me.

I sit down on my floor. I try to ground myself. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. It doesn't last. I stand up again and keep pacing in a frenzy.

My phone dings next to me and I glance at it

Timmy

Hey, are you free to get lunch? I haven't seen you at all this week.

I ignore it completely. I'm too overwhelmed. I stride out of my room and into my bathroom, splashing cool water on my face. I can't keep living like this. I can't control myself. If my friends or family knew the things I was thinking of doing...

No.

It's like every sign I get, everything that happens to me, is just trying to tell me what I should do.

I'm staring at my own reflection in the mirror, looking straight into my eyes while I picture myself just doing it. Ending my own life. My eyes widen. I won't do it. I can't.

My phone rings in my bedroom. I walk back in and pick it up. It's Timothée.

I answer the phone, but don't talk.

"Uh, hey. Are you there?"

I find the urge to speak.

"Yeah, sorry. Yes. What's up?" I ask.

"I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch... are you okay? You sound kinda weird, but maybe it's just talking on the phone," he says.

I close my eyes, rubbing my right temple with my freehand.